


Asylum

by blackvelvetwisteria



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Dark, Gen, Hallucinations, Horror, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2018-05-01 05:29:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5193983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackvelvetwisteria/pseuds/blackvelvetwisteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before there was Forks, there was a forest. But the forest held a dark secret only Aro remembers. And Aro only remembers because he was the victim....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Goodnight Moon

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't for everyone. Anyone who is squeamish or easily scared may want to reread the tags before continuing.

Twenty years. Was that really how long it had been? Impossible. It had to be. I would never have allowed this hell to go on for so long. Would never have allowed my tormentors to live. Would never….. Well apparently I had. Apparently I hadn't even tried to fight. Oh how far I must have fallen, to not care what was done to me. I'd taken so much worse than this too.

Once, as a child, I'd thought that living meant pain. Now I knew better. That thought didn't help much. I didn't dare move. I wasn't planning on antagonizing my torturer. "Hold still, honey. I only need you for a little bit today, and if you're good we'll let you feed."

I gritted my teeth, staring at the buttonhook scalpel. It was meant to go under stitches without tearing them even slightly. Which meant she planned on going under my lobotomy scars. Or what were meant to be lobotomy scars. I'd healed from the damage they'd done, but the pain and disorientation wasn't something I'd forget anytime soon. As it was, I'd only finished healing mere hours ago. If she meant to knock me off balance again, it would be easy.

"If you scream then I put you under, but I'd much rather have you conscious." I bit my tongue, feeling the sharp point of the scalpel cut through the scab on the base of my head and into the bone. It burned, feeling the curve hook into my bone and pull. I didn't dare scream, but I wanted to. Only when They prodded my new wounds was I glad for a millennium of self-control.

I swallowed my scream, feeling the sharp point go over the channels of His most recent experiment. Not deep enough to re-create it, but deep enough to keep it open. I heard Her laugh. "Earnest actually did something right. The neurons are firing just the way he wants them too." I felt tears gather in my eyes from the pain. My vision was edging towards black. "Oh! Nope, you don't go under unless one of us puts you under." The black disappeared as she used her thumb to press down on my adrenal glands, pushing twice as much than was needed into my system to keep me awake. The pain seemed magnified because of it, and I felt the gash in my throat open up as I struggled not to scream in agony.

Bloody venom rushed up and I struggled to swallow it back down. It would lead to another round of drugs and surgeries to test my reactions if I puked. She pushed the scalpel in further, chuckling when I whimpered. I felt the burn evolve into a stabbing pain as she pulled it out. I could barely see now. I guessed She'd gone straight for the optic nerve, and had nearly severed it. "Good boy. Was that so hard, CB thirty six? Now open up." I did as I was told, letting her pour the rancid blood into my mouth. I swallowed greedily. How long had it been since they'd fed me? I felt her undo the restraints that held me in place and kept me from attacking her.

"Up. You get to walk back, aren't you happy?" I nodded. I didn't talk anymore. At first it was because of the stitches that held my vocal cords together. Now it was because I was terrified of what would happen if I tried. I still nodded, because they would break my legs if I seemed even slightly ungrateful. Because being able to stand was a gift here. My mental state, my ability to think and react, was a miracle.

I didn't breathe as I limped back to my cell. Because that's what it was. They called it sub-level thirty six, on account of it being the deepest underground. It was a labyrinth of of narrow corridors and sealed experimentation labs, but it was considered a prison. I was the only person on the sub-level. Hence my designation of CB thirty six.

I passed through the thirty five other levels to get to my own. I did my best to ignore the screams and pleas of the others. Did my best to not see the broken beings or weeping, infected bodies of the tortured. I couldn't tune out the feeling though. The heavy oppression of the hopeless, of the desperate wishing for an end, any end. There was hope too, from the newer victims. The hatred in those who hadn't been broken yet, who didn't know that cooperation would save them. I hated it.

"Mama help! Don't let him get me, Mama, please! Please help me! Someone, please!" I felt sick. I knew that voice. It belonged to a little girl no older than seven named Sarah. Her mother and father both worked here, as assistants to the head doctor. Why were they allowing this? Why would they allow this torture on their daughter?

"Hold still Sarah, honey. It'll be okay, I promise." That was her fathers voice, calm and cold. "Sarah, you need to calm down. The doctor doesn't want to hurt you." I knew that voice. It was His voice, the voice of my tormenter.

The perks of cooperation meant I walked back to my cell alone. So there was no one to push me along when I stopped in front of the examination hall where she was. I peeked my head around the doorframe cautiously. I could see well enough for this. I quickly wished I couldn't. She was strapped to a metal table, her little hands bound down by thick belts, her pretty brown braids laying on the floor while her mother cut her hair, preparing her for experiment number twelve. I nearly puked again. I remembered experiment number twelve. It was a psychological experiment, meant to make the mind turn on itself.

Her mother put the scissors down and placed a metal restraint across her forehead. I turned away as the doctor slid a needle in just below her ear. I couldn't watch what happened next. My nails bit into my palms as I did my best to keep my composure. Tears fell fast from my nearly blind eyes as I heard her pleas morph into shrieks of pain. She screamed for her parents to save her from whatever her mind was showing her, and I could hear the shifting of the belts as she thrashed.

I nearly lost it then, listening to her scream. How could anyone allow this to be done to a child? "She's perfect for this experiment. Thank you so much for volunteering her." I turned on my heel and ran. This was wrong, so wrong and horrible and twisted. I pushed at the door to the stairs and ran to my cell. I wrenched the door open and collapsed inside, safe for now.

Shuddering sobs wracked my body as I cried, leaning my head back against the wall. I didn't bother to scream anymore, it meant nothing. I stared at my wrists, the recent marks from my routine check still visible even to my ruined eyes. My head felt like it was going to explode. I wrapped my right hand around my left wrist, always had to remind myself, left and right, lest I lose them, and tightened my grip until I was sure the bone would break.

I relished the feel of it, of pain that I could control. I focused on it until it was all I could think of. My breathing evened out as my sobs quieted. Like clockwork then, my father's voice sounded in my head, Pathetic, wretched, useless thing. How dare you cry? How dare you think you control your own pain? The stabbing burn in my head doubled. It always did, just when I calmed down. When I felt even slightly in control, I lost any ground I gained. "I want to go home. I just want to go home." The plea was whispered.

Thoma's voice added in to my father's jeers. How could anyone love you when this is all you are? A weak, vile, ugly thing. How could you think I loved you? My tears, which had stopped for the brief break I was given, came back in full force as I felt my heart tear in two. The pain that came from the betrayal of my first love wasn't new, and yet this felt like it.

I tightened the grip on my wrist, bring me out of this hell, relying on the physical to pull me out of the dark of my mind. The burn lessened, and I gasped in relief. I tried desperately to get a grip on my sobs. If I could retreat into the back of my head it wouldn't hurt. Nothing hurt in the blankness of my head. But I couldn't access it, and I gave up. " Home. I just want to go home." My mantra now, it was the only tie I had left on my sanity.

Gentle footsteps caught my attention. I straightened up as best I could, wiping my tears away. I watched the door carefully, terrified of who was down here with me. No one ever was. "Aro?" It took me a few seconds to register my name, and slightly longer before my vocal recognition kicked in. Caius. Caius's voice. I froze. No. No, it wasn't him. It couldn't be. Even so, the door opened slowly, carefully. I curled closer into my corner, turning my head toward the wall, toward the dark.

A gentle touch to my hair, a small tug. I knew that touch. I loved that touch. That touch had held me and kept me safe for a thousand years. Blinking, willing my eyes to clear up and heal, I raised my head. And found myself staring straight into the horrified, heartbroken face of my mate. "Aro…. What have they done to you?" I just stared. He was here. He was truly here. I raised a shaking hand to touch his cheek. Be real. Please be real.

He was. His skin was solid under my touch, not dissipating the way it normally did in one of my hallucinations. "It's time to come home, my love. Can you walk?" I marveled at the sound of his voice. It had been so long since I'd last heard it. Wait, he's asked me something. Oh, right. I shook my head. I could, but I didn't trust my legs.

He tilted his head, his bright white hair falling across his face and onto my hand. "I think you're lying. I think you just don't want to walk. I think you want to be lazy. After all, you walked down here after She was done with you." My eyebrows knitted in confusion. How did he know that? He tightened his grip painfully, pulling my hair in earnest. I gasped in pain as he pulled on my stitches.

"You lied to me, didn't you? You probably love it here, love the attention they pay you." His sweet voice ran cold with poisoned honey. "I bet you don't even miss me. Do you?" I whimpered, not understanding. He put his hand over my wrist and crushed the bone. "You are the most selfish little cunt on the planet, you know that? You probably didn't even try to escape." He stood and walked out, only to come back a second later holding a wickedly curved knife in one hand and a white hot brand in the other.

I pressed back into my corner again, wishing it was deeper and I could run. He regarded me with icy, emotionless eyes. I knew that look, I'd seen it so often when he tortured an enemy. But I'd never had it directed at me, and I quickly realized I loathed it. His expression changed to one I knew well, gentle and loving. His eyes shone. He knelt, putting the knife down and shifting the poker.

"Aro darling. You don't need to be scared anymore. I promise, no one is hurting you ever again." I eyed the poker skeptically. "These aren't for you, love. I thought maybe you'd like a weapon if we were going to get out of here. Please believe me. You've suffered enough." A lump formed in my throat. I uncurled from my ball and crawled over to him. He pulled me gently into a hug. I burst into tears, sobbing into his shoulder. "Hush love. Your nightmare is over now."

I clung to him as tightly as I could. "I love you." The first words I'd truly spoken in decades seemed like the most important. He smiled. "I know. But," He shifted me so I was facing him "Did it ever occur to you I don't love you?" I choked on my tears. I'd been through so much….

I felt, as though from a distance, the sharp bite of the knife into my palm. I looked down at it, seeing the word loveless carved in Hebrew. Venom leaked out of the cuts as he retraced them. He pulled at the rags I wore, tearing them off my arms. "You forgot the lessons you learned when you were human. Now I'm going to make sure you can't forget them ever again." I tried to pull away from him, and he held tighter. "If you don't squirm it won't hurt so much."

I went numb, watching as he carved every last one of my father's epithets into my skin. I ignored the tears streaming from my eyes, hating myself for them. Weak. It was weak, and I should have been stronger. I should have been able to fight. But I couldn't. They almost never fed me, and when they did there was so little nutrients that it didn't make a difference. I'd been malnourished and abused as a human. The vemon had done little to change that.

He looked at me, once he was done. Those beautiful vermillion eyes held no warmth. I found myself praying it was over. But of course it wasn't. Not even caring, he reached for the poker and placed it against my palm, burning the word onto me. I screamed. All I had endured, and this broke me. His eyes snapped up to my face. I flinched away. I knew not to scream by now.

"Well that's one rule broken. How should I punish you for that?" He didn't bother thinking about it, just shoved me down, grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled as hard as he could. My scream echoed back off the empty halls. He used his leverage to flip me onto my stomach, pushing me down into the cold concrete. Harsh fingers wormed between my legs, circling my entrance. I thrashed in his grip , wanting to get away. That only only prompted him to move faster. I felt a sudden, harsh burn between my legs as he pushed in. He fucked me ruthlessly, not caring about my feeble attempts to push him away. When he finally finished I could feel venom dripping out of the mess he'd made of my ass.

I didn't bother trying to fight, and I bit back my screams of agony as he burned every word into me. I didn't try to understand, couldn't allow myself to think about what had happened to me. I registered dimly that he'd finished and left. I curled into a ball, weeping silently. My emotions were everywhere and the last edge of my sanity frayed almost through. My only comfort was knowing that it wasn't real. It had felt so real, but I forced myself not to believe it. That wasn't my Caius. It wasn't. I clung to that thought as stubbornly as I could. It did nothing to stop my tears. "Home." I whispered against the blackness of my cell. "I want to go home."

Outside of the door to Aro's cell stood a tall, brown haired man. He was clean shaven and had sparkling brown eyes. In his hands he held a clipboard with the words CB THIRTY SIX across the top. Ana had told him that his neuron experiment had finally taken hold, and he'd come down to check. A small prompt from the remote in his hands had activated the liquid control chip in CB thirty six's head. He smiled, shutting the chip off to allow his experiment his rest. As the breathing in the cell evened out, Dr. Earnest Brookhaven, the owner of Brookhaven Asylum Hospital, made a small note at the bottom of the clipboard: Experiment Twelve still active, holding up despite other mental and physical strains. Use more often on non-compliant patients. Smiling to himself, he walked quietly toward the stairs. It was time to go check on Sarah.


	2. Fever Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even in sleep there's no rest for the tortured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at that, almost five years since I originally posted this anywhere and I'm finally updating. There's still more of this that I'm working on, and I promise it won't be five years until the next update.

The cold pervaded his cell, swarming him, forcing his sleeping body to curl around broken ribs and infected organs. He whimpered in pain. Eyes bright with fever opened, one milky red and the other bright green speckled with gray. A shadow detached itself from the darkness, humming in satisfaction.

Flinching, the boy tugged on his hair, hoping the pain would make the thing go away. He only avoided succumbing to the suddenly extreme pain, worse than he'd thought, with effort. Dread radiated off of him. The shadow smiled, revealing a mouthful of sharpened, bloody fangs.

Other shadows joined the first, leering with bloody deranged grins. They crowded his paralyzed body, long fingers pulling strips of flesh and muscle off of an already broken form. His screams were drowned by the sheer number of them. Their laughter at his pain was a grating, high pitched buzz comprised of hisses and the screams of those who had once occupied the rest of the sub-level. Terror and pain ruled the boy they fed from, yet he didn't fight.

If they had cared to peek under his scars they would have seen that his fight- or- flight response had been, quite literally, cut from his brain. Somewhere outside his cell, old skeletons began to stir. Flesh poured down over previously dead bodies as they stood up. Nurses began preparing medications and doctors resumed long abandoned experiments. The shadows flowed out of the cell to haunt the dead eyed personnel.

Ever so slowly, the boy uncurled. Mindful of his injuries he stood up, swaying slightly. His eyes stayed resolutely forward, not daring to catalogue the new damage done. He clung to his fear, the only thing motivating him to move. His last hallucination (don't think about the pain, painful little vision, the first in so long) had accused him of wanting to stay. Now, standing on little more than bone and sheer stubborn will, he wondered. Did he really? Was that why he hadn't fought more in the beginning?

"Oh, you're awake. Good. He wants you in the examination room two hallways to the right." One of the nurses was watching him. He couldn't make himself move, not even slightly. Her calm smile devolved into a frown.

"Move. Now. Or do I need to make you?" His eyes widened in fear. He remembered well enough what disobedience wrought.

Closing his eyes, he forced every bit of control onto making his legs work. He barely managed a single step before the woman's impatience got the best of her. With an annoyed snarl she moved forward, grabbing his arm and tugging him toward her. Pain lanced up, causing him to let put an agonized scream.

Falling to his knees, tears streaming down his face, he finally stared at his body. Or rather, what was left of it. The shadows had done their work well, stripping most of the muscle and flesh off. All that was left to hold his body together was the veins and some of the main arteries. His stomach had been stripped of everything but a thin layer of skin, all that served to keep his organs in place.

He raised a hand to touch his face….and froze. His hands were white and thin. Bone. They were bone. There was skin no on them. Blood dripped down his fingers, flowing openly from his arms and shoulders. His whole body was red, blood cascading out of the wounds, old and new.

They tore at his scars and he hadn't bled. They pulled him out of his head, took his sanity, his reality away from him, and he still did not bleed. Now he was bleeding, far more blood than there ever could have been in his body. He was kneeling in an ever growing puddle of blood. Staring uncomprehendingly at the scarlet river his body was, he felt just the smallest shift in his head, almost like a snap.

He swallowed, feeling the stitches in his throat tear open. Mindless of anyone watching, he raised a shaking hand to his mouth, sticking the bony fingers down his throat and pulling out the stitches. He pulled them out slowly, relishing the feel of the thread coming undone. It didn't hurt, for the first time nothing hurt. He looked at it, watching blood smear across the formerly white stitches.

Without moving his head, he let his eyes drift up to the nurse. She was watching him still, her face arranged in a puzzled mask. He hadn't talked, wasn't planning to, right up until he saw her face. "Call the devil, will you? Because It's going to snow in hell." She just stood there, eyeing him. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He nearly laughed when it didn't hurt. No pain, no shock, no nothing.

White picket fence stretched all around. Or it used to be white, he thinks. He can't really remember what it was before, what it was used for before. He can't really remember anything. It's all haze, and it hurts to think.

He's aware that he's damaged, that something's wrong in the most basic way possible. He tries to catalogue what it is and fails. He can't feel anything right, it's all too distant, too foggy. He knows that he needs to leave, but can't understand the word. Nothings processing.

He blinks. The world comes into focus briefly, showing him scattered bodies and broken bones sticking out of skin. Eye sockets watch him, their contents long gone. He registers that what he's seeing should terrify him. It doesn't. Instead he bursts out laughing, high-pitched and breathy and erratically sharp. The distorted, tortured sound echoes back to him. He grins, a wide bloody thing full of mirth. His multicolored eyes dance with dark glee.

He can feel the way his mind has splintered, shakes his head to feel the jagged edges cut against one another. Standing is effortless, and he walks easily out of the room, ignoring the carnage around him in favor of the doors in his sight. His eyes cut out again, going dark.

But that's okay, because he knows where he's going. He trips and stumbles over bodies not usually there. He giggles almost continuously at the surreality of his situation. It's funny, isn't it? How they tortured him mercilessly in their search for his breaking point, but screamed and begged him to stop when he returned the favor? Yep, it's extremely funny, and his giggles turn into full laughter.

He falls over another body, this time because it had grabbed his leg. Blinking, he pushes himself up onto his knees. The corpse comes into view. Oh. Oh, it's not a corpse. It's alive. It has his attention and it knows it. He thinks it was a girl at one point, but isn't sure. It tries to talk, but he doesn't understand any of it. To him it just sounds like squeals and moans, inconsequential.

There's blood though, it's absolutely covered in it. It smells so good, fresh and pure. He leans down to lap at its skin. His throat is on fire, so he puts it out. The thing stops making noise after a little bit though. He pokes it with a finger, then stabs it with his nail. It doesn't move, and he loses interest. It's boring now, and the smell is annoyingly potent.

Shifting, it makes a crunching sound where his hand goes through the bone. He raises a hand to inspect it, toying curiously with the tiny shards stuck to his fingers. He knows there will be far more damage done, much more carnage than anticipated before he can come back to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short, I know. There's more in the works. Reviews sate my soul.

**Author's Note:**

> I have another chapter in the works, so I should be posting it fairly soon.


End file.
